


Shaking His Hand

by JennLaFleur



Category: EastEnders
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1550837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennLaFleur/pseuds/JennLaFleur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Syed offers his hand for a simple handshake...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1st May, 2009.

**Author's Note:**

> Story completed 08/06/12.

We're working in silence, having been left to get on with our tasks by my mother only minutes ago, but it feels like much longer. I'd made it to the Unit before dad with little time to spare, mum having dragged me from the cafe by my arm the whole way. A pair of marigolds were thrust into my hands and I was shown the sink, dirty pots already waiting from earlier. A stony glare of acknowledgement from my father as he arrived straight from his delivery round was all I had received, as my mum left us alone to deal with a customer in the office. I'm grateful for the chances I've already been given since getting back into contact with the family, of course I am, but this silence...it's deafening. It screams hostility; disapproval.

I look across the kitchen now; he has his back to me, his shoulders tense and knife in hand, focusing on chopping the food in front of him rather loudly. I suspect he's trying to make himself look busy so I won't feel the need to attempt conversation. But the tension is quickly becoming unbearable. I decide to try and break the silence.

"Look, I know you didn't want me working here..." I start tentatively.

"Yeah, but your mother did, and she's the boss."

A response of any kind is a start, I suppose. I try again.

"You never know...might be useful..." I joke, a weak attempt at lightening the mood, but I am quickly rebuffed.

"Just stick to washing up and everything will be fine." I realise his tone of voice isn't as irritated or annoyed as I had expected. Instead, it sounds condescending, patronising; as though I were a naughty five year old not worth his attention. I think I would have preferred the reaction I had been expecting. The one he is currently using just makes me want to keep trying, even though I know it's futile.

"So this is how it's going to be, is it?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

I don't know what to say to that, so the stilted conversation dies. I stare at the back of my dad's head – rubber gloved hands not having touched a dish as yet – vainly willing him to turn back around, to say something else. The mood is now worse than it was before I opened my mouth...typical. I want to show dad that I can be useful, that me working here could be a good thing; not a mistake. I did make a mistake, a huge mistake, all those years ago. But I've paid the price for it, I've learned from it. Hearing the hostility in my dad's voice, still, makes my stomach drop with the realisation that we might never make progress.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone entering the kitchen, carrying something in both hands. Anything to break the silence and cold atmosphere, I jump at the chance to talk to someone who hopefully won't give me the silent treatment.

"Here, let me," I offer, quickly rushing forward to grab the object - I wince inwardly, realising it was only a light box of herbs - and focus my attention on it briefly, setting it down on the nearby counter.

"Thanks."

I glance up into a pair of sea-green eyes, and I'm instantly frozen on the spot. They're staring right at me, possibly seeing things I don't want them to see. Shit. I break the contact immediately; a decidedly wise move, but it just means my eyes end up flitting over his entire face...skimming over his chest, his arms...

Stop it Syed, I tell myself furiously.

Without thinking, I find myself starting to pull off the rubber glove on my right hand as I introduce myself, bracing myself to look back up with a smile.

"I'm Syed."

"Christian."

Ah, Jane's brother. She had mentioned him. He's part of the business. I want to leave a good impression, I do...

"Muslim," I reply cheerily, instantly regretting it upon seeing his sceptical face. But I think I detect a hint of a smile. Did that amuse him? Or did I just make a complete idiot of myself?

"Nice to meet you," I swiftly move on, pulling off the rest of the glove and extending my hand for a simple handshake. That's what business partners do, right? Okay, I'm only on washing up duties for now, but a handshake seems appropriate.

When his hand touches mine, I begin to think that I maybe should have left the glove on.

I feel a spark – no, not a spark, a jolt – of something I can't quite put my finger on, tingle right up my arm at the feel of his skin against mine, warm and encompassing. We perform the shake, my hand pushing down with more force than strictly necessary, but that doesn't seem to get rid of it. Instead, the jolt makes its way into my stomach, causing it to lurch forward and nearly flip over with – what? Lust? No, definitely not. I've suppressed that, I've got over that. I have.

I look down at our hands as they stay together for a second longer, with a silent intake of breath. When our connection is broken, I still feel the effects. It's a strange sensation, like faint pins and needles in my fingertips. I can still feel his touch. Why?

I'm still staring at his hand as it moves back to his side. He's going to notice, I've made it really obvious now...

"Manly shake you got there," I decide to comment lightheartedly, turning away to set the glove on the sink; and recover from...a handshake. Pathetic, Syed.

I then look back at him earnestly, confident that he hasn't noticed anything unusual about my manner; and if I'm being completely honest, also casually looking for a sign that he felt something too...

He's turned towards the counter, and freezes at my remark. I realise I've just put my foot in it...again.

"And why wouldn't it be?" he challenges, turning to look at me with a challenging glare. No, I don't want him to look at me like that...

"No reason..." I backtrack, trying to brush it off, and wishing I hadn't said it. I don't do confrontations well. Please, just let it drop, I silently plead.

"What, gay man, limp wrist? That it?"

Oh god.

"No, that's not what I..."

But he's already leaving, box of herbs in one hand. One hand. I suddenly remember my idiotic offer to help him with it, and now I've offended him. Sod's Law, isn't it? I wanted to make a good impression – because we're going to be working together, obviously – and I couldn't really have left a worse impression if I'd tried.

I storm out of the Unit, frustrated. What is the point? I make to walk into the office, to be alone, before remembering who's in there. I stop to lean against the doorframe, observing the exchange between my mother and the customer – a schoolboy – while inwardly I calm myself down. I focus my thoughts on bland samosas and dipping sauce - inconspicuously wiping my hand on my apron - and try my hardest to forget about what just happened.


	2. 13th July, 2010.

"Here, shake my hand." I extend my arm, trying to pretend that it isn't trembling.

"What?"

He looks at me with utmost skeptism. I don't blame him – I know myself that I sound desperate, almost deranged. The voice in my head is concurring with me, asking me why I'm putting myself through this. It's futile.

Up until recently, and since the day I shook his hand for the first time, this voice in my head had taken the form of Christian's - pleading with me, telling me constantly to be true to myself (becoming louder when the real Christian started joining in) – but soon after I found the therapist, I started to hear my own voice as well, in unison with Christian's. So much so that the therapist's voice began to decrease in volume as time went on. This, today, was a last attempt to ignore the other voices; to cling to Alan's advice and his promise that I could change; this was the day I had to test out the techniques I've been taught. If they didn't work today, chances are they'd never work.

I'd already touched Christian today, in the middle of the market. I could tell myself it was spontaneous, I did it without thinking when I saw that he was heading for an accident with his back to Adam in his wheelchair. What I couldn't tell myself was that I saw him a mile off, saw him coming closer with his back to me and realised it was the perfect opportunity to make contact with him, regardless of whether he was actually going to cause a commotion or not. I'd run forward and placed my hands over his upper arms to halt him before I could change my mind. He had turned around to face me, yet somehow I managed to keep hold of him. The skin over his biceps felt soft under my fingers - cold from the wind, but surely warming up against my burning palms. I couldn't look him in the eyes, so I had shifted my own elsewhere; anywhere. What was it Alan said? Think of lice, think of pus...he's covered in it. I willed myself to see it. And I did; I saw it. But I couldn't feel it. I felt the small raise of goosebumps under my fingertips; the hard muscle under smooth skin. The visualisations simply couldn't compete.

I hadn't realised how long I'd stood there like an idiot, just...holding him. Chastising him for not looking where he was going while wondering how bad the consequences would actually be if I just pulled him closer and kissed him. As soon as that thought had crossed my mind I banished it, ending the conversation, pulling away reluctantly. I felt the heat of his gaze as I walked away.

...

"Come on, shake it."

I'm prepared now. I'm here, in his flat, which is full of memories of us, and I'm about to feel his skin against mine again. It's like the ultimate test. My mind is seeing the lice all over him. But dammit, Christian could even pull that off with aplomb. His voice, and my voice, in my head are telling me Alan's techniques will be shot to pieces as soon as I make contact. Hell, even Alan had thought it was too soon. So why am I doing this exactly, torturing myself? At least, torturing myself in a different way. My own thoughts - about therapy, about Christian, about my parents - torment me every night. I suppose this is me taking a risk. What happened in the market doesn't count, I wasn't ready then. I am now. I am.

Eventually he pulls a hand out of his pocket and reaches forward. His palm closes around mine loosely and we carry out the tiniest of handshakes before he wraps his thumb over my hand, effectively trapping it in his. I just about manage to withhold the gasp that's threatening to fill my lungs. It's just the same as it always was; no change whatsoever in the intensity of the jolt that spreads up my arm and makes me tense my shoulders in protection.

I steal a glance down at our joined hands, trying to discreetly take a deep breath. Looking back up at his eyes - big mistake - I can see determination now behind them. But I'm the one who's determined. Aren't I?

"See? Nothing. I don't feel anything."

Do I sound desperate? In my case, surely there's no such thing as protesting too much; protesting is pretty much the idea behind the therapy.

No no no no; he's moving closer, taking a step forward, close enough for me to feel his body heat. I wasn't prepared for this... Another glance down to our hands; anything to avoid him seeing what's in my eyes...which is fear. A lot of it. But not of him; it's fear that comes with the realisation that I'll never be cured. Because there is no cure. How can there be a cure for something which is the furthest possible thing from a disease imaginable? Those lice that I had relied on for visual aids? The jolt when our hands made contact electrocuted them into oblivion.

I can't let him see that, though. Can't let anyone see.

"I'm not attracted to you anymore."

I heard the tremble in my voice. Did he? If he didn't hear that, then surely he heard my heart speed up as he drew closer?

"I'm cured. It's over."

I force a smile on my face, trying my hardest to sound convincing. Maybe if I say it as many different ways as I can, I'll start to believe it too.

There's a pause as we look at each other, resolutely opposite each other, like a stand off. I see the disbelief in his eyes; it kills the part of me that wants so badly to be cured. There's no way he buys any of it. But did I really expect him to? Did I want him to?

"So you're okay with the menu, yeah?"

I can't stay here much longer. I feel that familiar suffocating sensation of things getting too much. I haven't changed in two months, haven't made progress despite all that time and money. Not one iota. Why?

I pull my hand free, perhaps a bit too forcefully. I acknowledge Roxy for the first time since I arrived; the realisation she was there the whole time colours my cheeks red just as I'm heading for the front door. I guess I'm not used to a third person within those four walls. Our four walls.

It didn't work. None of it did.

I make my way to the therapist's office with a heavy heart and stomach full of dread.


End file.
